


Introductions

by DelusionsbyBonnie, The London-in-the-Air Archival Society (sakuuya)



Series: The London-in-the-Air Archival Society [1]
Category: Battle for London in the Air
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-19 05:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuuya/pseuds/The%20London-in-the-Air%20Archival%20Society
Summary: Rescued set descriptions (and set images, where possible) from round one of the Polyvore battle group Battle for London in the Air. Primarily not my work, uploaded here unedited for archival purposes.





	1. Foreward

On April 5, 2018, the website Polyvore.com was shuttered without warning. Polyvore's main purpose was as a fashion discovery and creativity site, but it also contained a strong community who used the site for roleplay and "OC battle groups," which were sort of competitive, story-based roleplays. When Polyvore went down, it allowed users to download their own content, but old roleplays and battle groups, especially ones that included players who left the site before it went dark (and thus are unlikely to download their content or reconnect with other Polyvore users) are largely lost.

However, I'm fortunate enough to have a partial offline copy of one of the oldest OC battle groups, The Battle for London-in-the-Air, which was created and run by Polyvore user @decoder13. This series is intended as an archival preservation of that battle group, and thus, most of the content here was not written by me. In each chapter, I'll credit the original writer/artist by their Polyvore username and, if possible, their AO3 account name.

As I said above, my copy of this game is only partial. I have most of the set descriptions where players wrote full stories, but few, if any, of ones that were answered in summary form. Nor do I have all the visual sets that accompany the descriptions I've saved. If you were part of LITA and have an AO3 account, please comment on this fic, and I'll add you to the co-authors list. And if you have content that I don't, I'll happily add it to this series if you're willing to share it.


	2. Lady Lydia Stanley / @from-the-garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @from-the-garden.

Lydia could not seem to fall asleep. Unfortunately, this didn’t exactly surprise her. Her mind usually kept her awake, but she’d hoped that perhaps at Thomas’s new home, she’d finally find some rest. No such luck. 

With a small sigh of resignation, Lydia reached over and lit her bedside lamp. A small stack of books was illuminated by the warm yellow light. All of them had come from Thomas's library; he'd let her choose whatever she liked. Lydia grabbed the top book, a little blue one with a design of some flowers and an acorn on it. 

Squinting, she attempted to classify the flowers in the dim light. Apple blossom? No... Perhaps dogwood?

Turning open the cover, Lydia settled back into the bed to read. She'd only read about a chapter before a page turn dropped a small envelope in her lap. Her brow furrowed. What was this doing here? It was sealed with an acorn image, matching the book's cover.

Perhaps it was an old hidden secret of London-in-the-Air, hidden by the builders themselves! Or maybe, it was the will of an old relative, long forgotten, that bequeathed upon her a magic item that would help her to save the world! 

With anticipation, Lydia tore open the envelope, removing the sheet of cream colored stationary inside. Her eyes scanned the paper over and over again. It made no sense at all! It read: 

> Thomas, 
> 
> Hello, old chap! It’s been quite a long while since we’ve spoken. How are those prize lilies? I remember the last time we met, at our usual spot, you granted me 6! How lovely they were, too. My wife loved them, and we set them on the windowsill for two weeks before they wilted. You must join us for dinner some time soon. Farewell for now, but be sure to keep in touch!
> 
> Your dear friend,
> 
> Dr. Oak

Thomas didn't have any lilies in his yard; Lydia had ordered all of the flowers herself. And who was this Dr. Oak? She'd never heard Thomas speak of him before. 

On her fourth read-through, Lydia heard footsteps and quiet voices downstairs. It was the middle of the night! What sort of visitors could Thomas possibly be receiving at this hour? Her curiosity bursting, she crawled out of bed and slid on her robe. 

The hallway was dark, and Lydia could barely make her way to the servant's stair without running into a wall. 

The back stair was empty; Agatha, Rowena, and Edwin, Thomas's maid, cook, and butler respectively, were all in bed. Every creak of the steps was agonizing. What if someone heard her? 

She held her breath as she came to the main floor, peering around every corner before making her way to the only lit room in the house, the parlor. Even then, only one lamp was lit, and it seemed as if the curtains were drawn.

A small potted tree sat just beside the door, and Lydia slid against the wall until she reached it. Crouching, hidden behind the plant, Lydia listened to the voices of her brother and the strange visitor, a man.

“…full details in Mrs. Massey’s letter here, but yes, that’s the general idea.” The stranger’s voice was lively, but he spoke in hushed tones. 

"Yes, I understand how vital this information is. My father will be thrilled to see me taking an interest in his work." Thomas's familiar voice reached her ears, though the words didn’t process right. What was going on? What information? Who was this mystery man?

“Oh, I’d wager. If you can get that intel, you’d be saving the Resistance a whole of a lot of extra work. I’d better head back to headquarters, though. Massey told me to be back by two and it’s nearly a quarter ’till." Resistance!? Headquarters?? How perfectly thrilling and terrifying!

"Thank you, Chauncey, I'll show you out."

The words reached my ears a split second too late. The men were making their way out of the parlor. Lydia froze. Move! She told herself. Move! But she didn’t listen. Lydia found herself hoping that somehow the two wouldn’t notice her crouched in the dark behind the plant. Just as the two were passing her, the mystery man, Chauncey, stopped. 

“What is it?” Thomas halted too, turning to face the other man.

“I heard something…” His eyes scanned the hall, coming to rest on Lydia’s crouched form. Thomas followed his gaze. 

“Lydia?! What are you doing out of bed!” Thomas’s voice held equal parts anger and panic. Lydia stood slowly, and she knew how guilty she must look.

“I’m sorry, really, I just couldn’t sleep and so I started reading but I found this strange letter in the book and it was addressed to you from someone called Dr. Oak and you don’t even  _ have _ any prize lilies and then I heard voices and I came down to see who it was and you two were talking about the resistance and headquarters like some sort of adventure novel and it sounds so exciting and if you’re in the resistance I would very much like to join but I’m very sorry for eavesdropping please don’t say you have to kill me now!” Lydia clamped her mouth shut, forbidding herself to continue to ramble. She swallowed hard, judging the reactions of the two men.  

Chauncey was half-grinning. Thomas ran his hand through his hair, like he does when he’s nervous, before answering. “You found my letter? In the book with the dogwood and the acorn?” Lydia nodded slowly, still unsure of his reaction. “And you heard our conversation just then about the resistance.” She nodded again.  

Thomas hesitated before his last question, contemplating. “And then you said… you said you wanted to join?” 


	3. Rosie Rodgers / @the-forgotten-wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @the-forgotten-wolf.

It was dreary day, the clouds were grey and the sky the same. Rosie sighed as another person passed her bye, not even bothering to look her way, let alone drop some money into the hat she was holding.

“Come on! Can’t somebody help a girl out?” She called out to the streets. No one looked up. This was a pretty normal occurrence. After all, no one wanted to help some random girl on the street.

She frowned and stood up, her boots making an awkward squishing sound because of how wet they were. It was getting late, and the storm was only getting worse. Rosie had to find somewhere to seek shelter.

She passed dozens of people; most holding fancy umbrella’s over their heads. The dark headed girl suddenly wished she had something to hold over her own. Her dark hair was almost black, and her clothes sticking to her uncomfortably.

Rain pelted down onto her harshly, until it didn’t.

Frowning in confusion, the young girl glanced up. She was met with the sight of a young man. He was tall, handsome, and was currently holding his on dingy umbrella over her head.

“Thanks.” She attempted a bright smile. It didn’t stay for long though. She was cold and wet, her teeth were chattering, and she found it hard to stand still. She shifted on her feet, as the man stared at her, a gleam in his eyes.

He looked a little crazy with his hair sticking up in different directions, and dark coat covering his larger form. He handed her the umbrella without a word, pulling his hood up to protect him from the harsh rain.

“Who are you?” She asked loudly, trying to be heard over the loud winds.

“Matt.” He replied, before turning around. He started to walk away, his steps quick and precise.

“Wait!” Rosie called desperately. She darted after him; her owns steps more clumsy than his. This man had seemed familiar. The dark haired girl racked her brain, trying to remember where she had heard of him. Matt…

Her chocolate colored eyes widened in realization. This must be Matt Valentine! She’d heard gossip about him on the streets. Supposedly, he was a mad scientist; rumored to be a part of the resistance.

In a split second decision, Rosie called out, “I want to be a part of the resistance!” Matt halted instantly, glancing around at her wide eyed. He walked swiftly towards her, grabbing her arm in the process. The man pulled her harshly behind the closest building.

“What have you heard of the resistance?” He glanced around wildly, before settling his gaze on her.

“Just rumors really.” She shrugged, ignoring how fast her heart was beating. “Can I come with you?” She asked, her tone showing how desperate she was.

He hesitated, and she took her chance. “Please!” She glanced up at him, her eyes wide and innocent.

“Please, please, please! I promise that I can help you. I’ll do anything!” She pleaded, trying to sway him.

He seemed to sigh in annoyance before mumbling something under his breath. “Fine.” He stated, rolling his eyes when her face lit up with a bright grin.

“Thank you!” She hugged him tightly, before he pried her off of him. “Yeah, yeah.” He huffed.

“We need to get going. I’m working on something important.” He picked up the umbrella she had dropped in one hand, and grabbed her shoulder in the other. Matt led her towards the warehouse he stayed in, occasionally telling her to keep her chattering down.


	4. Dr. Anil Jhandir / @sakuuya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @sakuuya, aka [sakuuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuuya/).

Dr. Jhandir consciously refused to squint into the bright light aimed at his face. It was an attempt, he supposed, to preserve the anonymity of the shadowy figures milling about behind it, which was itself a bit of an insult. He’d done his damn research, and when one of the dark shapes finally spoke to him, he was pleased to know that some of it, at least, had been accurate.

“How did you find out about us?”

“The government has—had—a surprising amount of information on your activities. It’s not centralized or cataloged, because the Board doesn’t believe you exist yet, but anyone who knew what to look for could have pieced together what I did, Dr. Massey.”

Massey’s shadow didn’t react at all, but a low hubbub broke out behind him. Dr. Jhandir couldn’t make out anything that they were saying, let alone identify any more voices—and they likely wouldn’t let anyone but Massey address him now that the old man’s identity was out in the open. It was petty (and it was absolutely not why he was here), but Dr. Jhandir couldn’t help but feel like he’d scored a point. He smiled.

“I notice that you were careful to stress the past tense there, Mr. Jhandir—“

The smile fell. “ _Doctor_ Jhandir.“

“Of course,” Massey continued smoothly. “Am I correct in assuming that your use of the past tense refers to the documents we took off your person?”

“Yes.” They’d taken more than that, stripped him down to his shirtsleeves before ushering him into this interrogation room. He wasn’t tied to his chair, but some big anonymous tough was standing behind him with a meaty hand resting on his shoulder. Dr. Jhandir fought the urge to bat it away—he was here to make friends, he kept reminding himself—and simply hoped that it wouldn’t leave a sweat stain. “I stole what I could, and altered or destroyed other records. If anyone else _does_ try to find you now, they’ll have very little to go on.”

“And how exactly did you gain access to this information in the first place?”

Dr. Jhandir took a steadying breath before replying. His research suggested that the rebellion in general and Massey in particular wanted to appear heroic, and were thus unlikely to murder someone who had willingly given himself up to their custody. And their interrogation of him thus far was rather less…pointed than the government-approved ones he himself had carried out in the past. Still, his safety was less than assured, particularly since he’d been blindfolded and taken God-knew-where for this little chat.

“I have been employed by the government since I graduated from medical school back in ’82. Most recently, I was the chief assistant of the scientist Lord Thaddeus Beck. Currently, I am officially deceased.”

More murmuring from the shadows. Despite himself, Dr. Jhandir was again pleased. Any reputation he’d accrued among these rebels would only hurt his integration into their ranks, of course. Still, there was something primally satisfying about one’s name being spoken in fear. When Dr. Massey spoke again, he sounded annoyed.

“Ignore my compatriots. They’re just surprised that the Board is willing to hire doctors of your race.”

His smugness faded away, replaced by just-as-untoward disappointment and anger that these people had never heard of him. There was something about Massey: Despite the claims of ignorance as to Dr. Jhandir’s identity, the old man seemed to know just what to say to get under his skin. Or maybe the glare of that damn light was finally getting to him.

Massey ignored the change in Dr. Jhandir's expression. “If what you’ve told us is true,” the old man continued, “then you must have more sensitive information than a passel of documents obliquely referencing anti-government groups.”

“Of course. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, help you in any way I can.” Dr. Jhandir said, still reeling from the blow to his ego. “I came here of my own volition, and I intend to cooperate fully with you.”

“Then I have one more question for you, Mr. Jhandir: Why come to us? It sounds like you had a good thing going under the Board’s thumb.”

“I had no future there,” Dr. Jhandir replied, seething at the incorrect title despite knowing that it was deliberate provocation. “They were never going to give me the position and respect I deserve by virtue of my intelligence and hard work, just because I was born in India. Years of that weigh on a man’s soul, Dr. Massey, no matter how gilded his cage. I’m going to be honest with you: I don’t care much one way or the other about your rebellion’s principles. I just want to see the Board and all their little monkeys burn.”

A pause from the darkness, then, “We can work with that.” The warning hand lifted from Dr. Jhandir’s shoulder, and for a moment he thought he was being set free. But no, the thug just needed both hands to reapply the blindfold.

“We’ll look into you,” Massey continued, as though Dr. Jhandir wasn’t being manhandled out of his chair and back toward the door. “If—and I stress that this is a very important if—your story checks out, someone will be in touch with you in a few days. If anything you’ve told us is a lie, I strongly suggest leaving London-in-the-Air as soon as possible. Good day.”

Dr. Jhandir tried to keep track of the twists and turns as he was led, still blindfolded, back out into the street, but it was no use. He only knew that they had gone outside because of the drizzle, and by the time he realized he was no longer being dragged along by the thug (and subsequently clawed off his blindfold) the big man had melted into the evening gloom.


	5. Beth de Garcia / @heymisstm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @heymisstm.

It wasn’t unusual to see Beth in an alleyway on a Friday evening. It wasn’t unusual to see her with a disgruntled look on her face either. Fixing her coat, she gave a soft sigh and started to make her way down the street, her heels clacking against the stone. Another lead, another dead end. Was there any hope that she’d find the information she was looking for?

She was marching down the street with her head down, muttering to herself. She almost jumped when someone bumped into her. “Watch where you’re going,” she snapped angrily, spinning to face the person.

“Pardon me, Madame de Garcia,” the person apologised quietly. Their hood was up, so she couldn’t see their face. How on earth did this person know her name? Should she be worried?

She saw a gloved hand appear from under the person’s long coat. A large envelope was held between the leather. “Take this. I feel it may interest you.”

Frowning, Beth took the parchment envelope in her own hands, examining the front. There was nothing on the front, no name, no address. It was blank, only for the small printed crest in the corner – an acorn, with two dogwood blossoms crossed behind it. Confused, she looked up again to question the mysterious deliverer, only to see the person had vanished. She turned around, sweeping her eyes over the street quickly. No sign. It was like they had vanished into thin air. “Jesus…”

She studied the envelope again. There was no sign of anything dangerous, or that there might be something poisonous inside. It was a crazy thought, but with her status and with everything that had happened in the past few years, she couldn’t be too careful. She kept walking, tucking the envelope into her coat.

Once she got home, Beth decided to throw caution into the wind. She sliced open the top of the envelope with a small knife, sliding out the letter inside. All that was written there was the name of a building. She studied it for a few moments, more questions than answers whizzing around her mind. What was this about? Who was that person? Why did that person know her name? What did this letter mean?

After a while, she came to a decision. She was going to look into this.

It was time for some investigating.

(Little did she know that this investigating would lead her to the resistance, and her new hope.)


	6. Moira Wanderly / @nyssa-fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @nyssa-fire.

A small pile of dingy coins jangled against each other in the thin leather sack at my hip. The bag was about the size of my hand, a bit bigger, made of worn leather. I tied it around my corset, and it bounce on my hipbone as I walked. Thump-thump-thump. I smirked a little to myself. I loved that sound, reveled in it. It meant that I successfully stole or conned money off some poor sap. It was almost too easy, like tonight.

The city was just about dark when I finished my walk home, and no one was out. I slipped into the apartment easily, but the junky door creaked loudly in my ear when as I shut it. Our crappy apartment was cold, as usual, and the garish light of the candle-lighted lamps highlighted the patchy paint job and the gross water stains. Home, sweet, home.

"Oh good, you're home. Take those muddy boots off and stir the stew before my bladder explodes." My aunt, Nicolette, was never one to use flowery, polite language to say what she wanted to stay. I snorted and unzipped my long boots, sliding them off my feet and making my way over to the area of our home that could pass as a kitchen. Nic squeezed my arm gratefully and ran out to relieve herself while I started to stir the stew in the beat up pot over the fire. I sniffed. I actually smelled chicken. Real meat. I guess today was lucky for both of us. I was sick of watered-down mystery broth and mushy celery. It's been a very long time since we could afford chicken. I was imagining how it was going to taste, and I almost didn't hear Nic return.

"Smells good, doesn't it?" I could hear the smug tone in her voice, even though she was facing away from me, setting bowls on the small table. "I fixed the butcher's pig pen for him. What an idiotic little man. He gave me chicken so long as I didn't go blabbing to anyone that a woman could fix a simple fence but he couldn't."

I laughed at her story. Nic and I often got underestimated because we were women, but it was helpful sometimes. "Yeah, well. I bet my story is better." I teased as I brought the pot away from the fire and onto the table.

Nic handed me a spoon and sat down, ladling out her serving of stew. "Shoot," she said with a competitive smirk. That's what I like most about my aunt. She was more like an older sister. My parents were only twenty when I was born, Nic just thirteen. When my mom died in labor, my dad was too wracked with grief to take care of me on his own. Their own parents had long since perished to poor working conditions, and so Nic had no choice but to help her brother raise me. As long as I can remember, Nic has been there for me, but when my father was killed when I was nine, she's the only person I had left. We were on our own then, and I wouldn't know what I would do without her. But since we're women, there's not much in the way of jobs for us. We steal and con our way through life. My first job was when I was twelve and I was terrified. Nic chose my target; a fat upper-mid class man who had a weak disposition. I pretended to be a poor orphan who had to sell soap in order to keep her place at the orphanage. My eyes were wide, my hands were bony, and my clothes were shabby. The man took pity on me and gave me a handful of coins for the wrapped package of 'soap,' which was actually empty. Nic was insanely proud of me, and I succeeded at what I did from then on. As I got older, people were less keen to fall for my plights, so I resorted to stealing. Lying, feigning, seducing, and blowing up kneecaps were how I made my way in this world, and I felt no guilts. Nic and I chose our targets carefully and didn't take from anyone who didn't deserve it. And if someone was dumb enough to fall prey to us, they were probably too dumb to miss their money that much, anyway. We got by, my aunt and I. But some of our daytime stories were very interesting, to say the least.

I served myself some stew before I indulged myself. The chicken actually tasted better than I imagined, though it wasn't even that great. Then I slowly reached in the space between my corset and blouse and pulled out a necklace. The bronze chain felt heavy in my hand, too expensive and important to be in a thief's possession. I pushed it across the table to Nic. She took it with a raised brow. I saw that expression in myself all the time. We were both very determined, stubborn, and prickly. Nic let me know that she wasn't amused by my gift. "What the hell is this?"

I ducked my head, knowing that she would react like this. It was her thirty eighth birthday in two days, and she didn't want to acknowledge it. But the stress wrinkles around her blue eyes and the strands of silver in her long black hair did. Nic still looked great for her age, but she wasn't getting any younger. The necklace wasn't just a necklace, though. It was a locket with a miniature painting of a yellow rose and three acorns inside, across from a clock. Nic examined the locket, and her sharp gasp told me that she saw the flower. She turned her head away from me and clenched her jaw. "No, Moira Wanderly. I told you, I wanted nothing to do with them."

She only used my full name when she was very serious, so I knew I was in the doghouse now. She was taking about the Resistance. I joined it when I was twenty, five years ago.

At twelve, Nic informed me that my father didn't die from a wild animal attack. He was killed. She could never prove this, because the government cremated his body, but she knew. He had a rebellious sprit inside of him, just like I do. He hated our world, and he wasn't ashamed to let his views be known. He was murdered for his spirited talk, and when I was told the truth about his untimely demise, a fire was lit inside me, and I would never be able to put it out. I became bitter, cold, manipulative. Angry and vengeful. I channeled that into doing my job without the interference of morals and guilt, but at twenty I joined the Resistance. They want to end the cruelty of our world, and I needed to do something to help. I was confronted after I knocked a man out and picked his pockets. A fellow member of the Resistance saw what I could do and told me all about it. I was hooked, and here I am, five years later. Nic knows about it, but she refuses to join. She doesn't want to die like her brother, and I can respect that. Even though my father was never part of the Resistance, (I checked) he did agree with their values, and Nic wants something to blame. But I know that she's a sympathiser. The yellow rose and acorns will show that. The symbolism isn't lost on her, she knows that it can be associated with the Resistance. For years I've been begging her to join. I think she'd be good for it, and it for her. But she's resolute. That's why she doesn't like the necklace.

I sighed and grabbed one of Nic's hands. She was the only person I ever left see my softer side. Here, in our home, we were alone and I could let my defenses downs. "Nic, listen to me. I'm not asking you to join my cause. The picture shows that you're a friend to the Resistance, a sympathiser. Nothing more. You have no connection to it, you just agree with them. It's a locket, anyway. You won't have to open it and show the whole city. Just know it's there."

Nic breathed deeply and thought about my words. She finally strung the necklace on her neck, and tucked it into her cleavage. It looked weird on het. I wasn't used to either of us wearing jewelry and it was odd. But it suited her. I relaxed, grateful that Nic accepted the locket without too much of a fight. She glanced back at me sharply, though. "Where did you get this?" She bit out, a worried inflection hidden behind the strict exterior. The Resistance terrifies her. And Nic is not the type to cower lightly. But I'm all she has left, and she couldn't bare to lose her parents, she sister-in-law, her brother, and her niece. It would break the strong woman I know.

I smirked. "That is where the story comes in play. Old Mad Grover gave it to me."

Nic's look of confusion and surprise made me laugh slightly. Old Mad Grover lives down the block from us, and as his nickname eludes, is mad. He's harmless, really, but he has a wonky eye and wild hair, and is always nattering on about things that make no sense. I feel bad for him, I do, but it's quite comical as well. I had no idea he was in the Resistance until last month, when we worked a mission together. I'm amazing at both my daytime, and nighttime jobs, if you will. Stealing and conning comes easy, but so does strategizing, planning, creating, and pulling off high-stakes heists and missions for the Resistance. It's just what I do. I know London-In-The-Air like the back of my hand, I know important higher-ups and the sins they've partaken in, and I know their weaknesses. I can blend in an observe easily, it comes with being a con-artist, and years of observing has led me to learn many useful things. Last month, my mission was just a simple Intel job, no problem. The target was just a scrawny government kid who's probably never even kissed a girl, even at seventeen or so. He just had that nerdy sort of vibe. But the thing was, Old Mad Grover was instructed to be my partner-in-crime. Usually I'm allowed to pick my comrades, but apparently Gangly McPimple Face had some history with Old Mad Grover that left him to be shaking in his boots whenever he was around the older man. I don't how how the leaders of the Resistance knew this, but oh well. Grover was helpful, I have to say. He scared the kid and I got him all flustered by smiling charmingly and winking saucily at him. Then he was putty in our hands and we gathered useful information on his old man. I never got a chance to talk to Old Man Grover again until today. He sought me out on my way home, and called me into his apartment. He never really unsettled me like he did the other people in our crap hole of a neighborhood, so I had no problem following him.

I told this all to Nic as she waited for the best part. "He handed this to me, said it was for you. The Resistance knows about you, Nic. They know you're my aunt, and they know what you do. Some of them knew dad, and they know about his death. They consider an honorary member, Nic."

Nicolette's eyes tightened, but she didn't say anything, so I continued. "So Old Mad Grover instructed me to give it to you. But he didn't give it to me without something in return."

I smile amusedly, just thinking about it. Nic looked worried. "What'd he do to you?" She says wildly, fearing the worst. She never really held the same opinion of Grover that I did, so she wasn't keen to think he was just an innocent old man. I snorted and waved her concern away.

"Relax yourself, Nic. I'm as fine as fire is hot." Nic rolled her eyes. We've been saying that to each other for years, though I don't really know how it started. Our lives weren't always risk free, so we had to assure each other that we were okay somehow.

"Grover didn't do anything unsavory," I continued. "He did make me dance for your locket though."

I laughed again at Nic's confused face. "Dance?" She asked like it was a foreign word. That made me crack up completely, because it was just so ridiculous.

I nodded through the peals of hysterics. This wasn't usually like me, but I felt like letting go today. "He made me polka dance. By myself, no partner. To a waltzing song."

Nic started at me blankly before snorting and laughing loudly along with me without abandon. I'm not sure if it was the ridiculous task that an unstable old man made me do in order to be given a necklace to give to my aunt, or the rare taste of meat, or stress building up and making us snap, but my aunt and I couldn't stop laughing. My body shook like a drunken toddler on super-speed, and tears were starting to leak out of Nic's eyes.

We didn't stop our bout of insanity, even after a candle blew out and tipped over from a strong draft coming in from a hole in the wall that needed to be fixed, or we heard the sounds of a fight from outside. It was typical in our slummy neighborhood, and I was used to it. But I guess that's why something needs to change, and I'm willing to push it along, no matter what the cost.


	7. Marissa Jones / @my-dearest-fandoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @my-dearest-fandoms.

'oi, Mari' called James, running after her. 'you got anything today?' Marissa turned to look at him 'do you mind not shouting?' she said looking around 'even though police aren't due around for 5 minutes, there might still be people who know what that means, okay'

James held his hands out defensively and continued walking, Marissa followed as they traveled back to their home.

They turned down an alleyway to see a poster promoting the resistance, James hadn't seen it though and Marissa pulled the poster of the wall and stuffed it into her belt. James didn't even notice.

The next day she told him to stay home, he didn't want to but he did anyway, Marissa could become very scary. Marissa on the other hand was not doing her usual work but instead trying to find out as much as she could about the resistance. At first nothing came up but what she knew, but as she walked past a man who looked like a mix of a magician and a handyman. 'I heard you've been asking about the resistance' he said as she was about to pass. She turned to look at him 'only the people I could trust'

Forrester got her in contact with other members of the resistance and she met with them. They thought she would be an asset so they got her involved and she joined properly from then. The only problem was her brother,she didn't know what she would do with him, she asked if he could also join and they said yes. But Marissa being the protective girl she is doesn't really want him to.


	8. Phinn Atwood / @trulydear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @trulydear.

"You're sure you don't want me to walk you over there?" Phinn asked for the twentieth time that morning as he followed Millie's every step toward the airship base. "I'm sure they won't mind if I just tag along to---"

"Phinn," Millie breathed out sharply as she stopped and turned sharply on her heel to face him. He practically ran into her, not realizing she had stopped. "Look, I love you lots and I know you mean well, but I'd prefer not to look stupid. Thanks."

Phinn looked taken aback. "And how does having a loving brother who is concerned about your safety look stupid, I would like to know?"

Millie sighed and rolled her eyes lightly. "No one had to walk you in when you joined the resistance."

Phinn rolled his eyes in return, causing Millie to suppress a laugh at how exaggerated he made the movement. "That was different, Mills," he insisted. "I was out of university, had a steady job, was already on my own two feet..."

"I wouldn't call coming home every day because you can't cook being on your own two feet," Millie pointed out with a smirk. Phinn just scoffed.

"I most certainly can cook!" he stated matter-of-factly. Millie just shrugged. "Besides, that's not what I meant. What I mean is...well, by the time I joined, I was old enough to make my own decisions, to do things for myself. Sure, my feelings toward the government had been building since I was younger than you are now. But I didn't join the resistance at seventeen, mind you."

Millie rolled his eyes again. "What, now you don't even want me to join?"

Phinn sighed. "That's not what I mean," he muttered. "Millie, when I joined, I would have been thrilled to have someone to walk me in, someone to help me get over those first day jitters. But the friend that steered me to the resistance wasn't exactly willing to hold my hand as I took my first baby steps into the rebellion."

"Phinn, I'm not a little kid," Mille practically pouted. Phinn laughed slightly.

"No, I know you're not," he agreed. "But I'm still walking you over there."

"What happened to me getting to decide?" Millie whined.

"I'm walking you over there," Phinn repeated. 

"But---"

"No buts!" Phinn took Millie by the wrist and had to practically pull her over to the airship base, where the resistance docked their shops at the end of the day. Phinn and Millie made their way over to where a small group of people was standing, discussing something or another in rather hushed tones. They stood their for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, until a dark haired woman noticed them out of the corner of her eye and turned to face them.

"Can I help you?" she asked, sounding both friendly and a tad flustered.

Before Millie could speak, Phinn cut her off. "Yes, this is my little sister, Mi---Camilla. She's supposed to start airship training today."

"It's Millie," Millie instead as she glared at Phinn. "No one calls me Camilla. Ever."

The dark hair woman smiled as if from recognition. "Ah, Ca--sorry, Mille Atwood, right?" Millie nodded. "Well, you're in luck. I'm Cordelia French and I'll be training you, for today, at least." Cordelia took a moment to mumble something to the group she had been speaking to and they moved off after one of them nodded in response to Cordelia. "Ready to begin, then?"

"You sure you don't want me to stick around for a little while?" Phinn practically begged, but Millie just sighed.

"I'll be fine!" she insisted yet again. Phinn smiled lightly.

"I know you will." And with that, he gave her a very tight hug. "Tell me all about it later, alright?" Millie nodded.

"You can just head into the airship if you want," Cordelia instructed as she nodded toward the ship right behind her. "I'll join you in a moment." Millie nodded and made her way up into the airship, leaving Cordelia and Phinn alone. "She'll be okay," Cordelia reassured him.

"I know," he sighed slightly.

"Don't worry, I'll look after her," Cordelia told him with a grin. "Nothing's going to happen to her on my watch."

Phinn just laughed and shook his head. "I'm just...protective of her, that's all."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Cordelia's lips. "She's lucky to have a brother like you, then." Phinn just shook his head again. "But you really don't need to walk her in or pick her up at the end of the day, you know."

"I know, it's just---"

"Trust me, you've got to let the girl grow on her own," Cordelia insisted gently. "I'll let you know how she does, alright?"

Phinn nodded gratefully. "That would be much appreciated." And with that, Cordelia went to join Millie on the airship.

Phinn sighed slightly as he stood there, feeling surprisingly alone and maybe just a tad numb. It felt like just yesterday Millie was just a little girl, clinging to his leg and poking around at his inventions. Now, here she was: a perfectly capable young woman, following a cause she was passionate about and making her mark on the world. It felt a bit strange, to say the least. Of course, it wasn't like he hadn't been expecting it. Millie's distaste for the government was modeled after his own, after all. Hadn't he always encouraged it? From the day he announced to his family that he had joined the resistance upon the referral of a friend, Millie had seemed perfectly determined to join. Of course, there were other resistance members Millie's age, some of whom had joined around the same time as Phinn. But still, that was different. This was Millie he was talking about, the sister that he had practically hovered over since the day she was born. It felt rather strange to see her joining the resistance, especially since he still saw her as being so young. It all felt...surreal. And not in a very good way.

But Phinn couldn't dawdle at the airship docks all day. He had a job to do, after all. Well, more like a messy amalgam of jobs that was somehow considered one. To the rest of London-in-the-Air, Phinneas Asquith Atwood was either a scientist, part-time professor, lifelong scholar, or inventor, depending on the day. To the resistance, Phinn was all four wrapped into one, without any distinct label. He spent much of his time in the lab, running experiments and reporting any and all findings. But there was also a small workshop set up in one corner of said lab where Phinn liked to do his inventing. It was far easier to invent in the lab than to have to go to some other room to do it. Phinn's inventions ranged from small little contraptions used on airships to confuse the enemy to little machines that could possibly be quite useful in battle, should a real battle ever occur and should he ever get the machines to actually work right. Phinn also spent plenty of time studying, just reading up on new scientific discoveries, new inventions, and the government, knowledge that he could easily put to use in several different ways. Lastly, Phinn just so happened to hold a few classes for some of the younger members of the rebellion. He mainly taught the same things he taught about at the university, but with a stronger focus on the government and inventing. They were practically classes that helped newer members to find their niches in the resistance. Several others taught their own classes on topics from mechanics to investigating to running an airship, much like the sort of classes Millie would most likely be attending. These classes were a good way to get new members sorted out into the areas of the rebellion in which they would fit best.

And so Phinn set off to the lab, desperately hoping Millie would have a good first day and that Cordelia really would relate a all the details to him later. For now, all he could do was focus on his experiments for the day and cross his fingers that no one had touched any of the chemicals he had forgotten to organize properly the day before.


	9. Andrew O'Rourke / @delusionsbybonnie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @delusionsbybonnie, aka [DelusionsbyBonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie).

“Hey, O’Rourke!”

Andrew turned to face the man jogging to catch up with him. “Aye, Poole?”

“Got a good job for you. Need a man who doesn’t like the Retties and who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Andrew raised his eyebrows at the disrespectful slang name for Lord Mayor Everett’s government. “And what makes you think I trust you that much?”

Poole spread his hands. “You know me, Andrew! C’mon, I’ll buy you a pint and explain the whole thing.”

An hour and not one, but two pints later, Andrew was being introduced to a small group of people on board an airship. They were part of a resistance aimed at taking down the corrupt government, and they could always use another good man with a strong back.

Andrew nodded slowly. “Well, I don’t know about good man, but I’ve d—n sure got the strong back. Any chance to kick the bl—y Brits in the nadgers sounds good t’me.”

Poole grinned and slapped him on the back. “Told you it was a good job. Doesn’t pay for nothin’, but it comes with other benefits.”

Andrew nodded, eyes following a striking, dark-haired woman as she left the cabin. “Aye, looks like it does.”


	10. Adelaide Jude / @mandylou4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @mandylou4.

Adelaide moved the ladder to stand beneath the hole in the ceiling that would lead to the attic and, after climbing the first rung, tentatively jumped to check the steadiness of the ladder. It wobbled but did not break, so with an oil lamp in hand, she carefully climbed to the top and pulled herself into the dusty attic. The room was musty, and the steady drip of water could be heard coming from one of the darker corners. She set the lamp on top of an old box and began sorting through the seemingly random and obscure antiques and letters shoved in old trunks, hat boxes, and bins.

By the time she'd looked through the third box of yellowed receipts, Adelaide was ready to give up. Her grandparents were dead and she was officially left with nothing at the tender age of eighteen; she had no idea how she would survive. With a sigh, she stood up from the makeshift stool she had made from three hatboxes stacked on top of each other and went to grab the lamp. That's when she saw it– a small leather box that looked like something you would hold jewelry in. She slowly unlatched the lid, holding her breath– it was just papers. Adelaide frowned in disappointment; paper was of not good to her. However, she slipped the box into her pocket (it might make for an interesting read latter) and climbed back down the ladder.

That night, as she laid in her bed, shivering because she couldn't afford to buy enough coal to last through the night, Adelaide read through the contents of the box– and she discovered her past. Her father was Morris Blackney! The councilman her grandfather had despised. After he left her mother, Beatrice, she had joined something called "the Resistance". As the candle reached the end of its wick, Adelaide was no longer cold. She knew what she was going to do. Tomorrow, she would find Morris Blackney _and_ the Resistance. She needed to know more.


	11. Phillip Jacobs / @tokyo-mocha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @tokyo-mocha.

It was my first time back since I had left. After two months on my own, I felt the pull of home calling me. I was practically a child, just sixteen. Some might see that as old, but I felt humbled and young by the reality of the world.

I crept in through the side door that I knew didn’t squeak and into the kitchen. On her toes, Caroline stood stirring a pot of broth. Her shoulders were slumped over and her hair was rattier than normal. I wondered what had happened. It hit me.

“Caroline,” I sighed, giving myself away. I didn’t like her, but I was still attached. She turned to me and dropped the spoon as if she had seen a ghost. Within seconds, her arms were wrapped around my waist.

“Oh, Johnson. I thought you had died. You can never leave again, you can’t. It’s too much for me to do, please stay.” She was so little then, barely eleven years old. Every second she clung on made my feelings more conflicted. “Please, I love you, brother.”

Something in me snapped. She called me brother. She didn’t belong here and never had and I wouldn’t be alone now if it weren’t for her. I cast her off suddenly.

“What? What is it, brother? Has something I’ve said angered you?” Her eyes were wide and doll-like. She was just SO eager to please. SO perfect. Everything I could never be. “Please, what is it?” She begged, coming back towards me. “Don’t leave again. We despair without you. He misses you too.” He being my father. His mention infuriated me, causing me to grip her shoulders.

“You are to leave me alone Caroline, do you understand? You slip a word of my presence and you will never see me again. I am not your brother, and I do not love you. Now go to your room and don’t come down until you have counted to 500. Quietly.” I leaned into her face on the last sentence. Her eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled and she looked at me with a new kind of fear. I released her, knowing what I had done. She darted from the room.

My heart felt heavy. I couldn’t believe I had done that. I believe that very moment effects our relationship to this day. What could I do now? I was running out of money and had lost the closest thing I had to a friend. She looked so defeated… I couldn’t bear to stay. I was about to leave. I had lost my sense of purpose in life. I wanted to die.

“I am vital to the resistance, don’t you see?” My father’s gravelly voice came from the greenhouse.

“Yes, but Mrs. Massey has recovered information that you’ve been in contact with various government officials.” A woman, older.

“They’re clients,” he responded desperately.

“We have to look into it, Fitzwilliam, but I can’t make promises. You know the consequences of betrayal. You’re on probation.” The woman’s chair slid up and I bolted.

A resistance? More importantly, a resistance that kicked my father out? They needed me and I knew exactly what for. I wouldn’t stop until I found this group and made my way in. I had rediscovered my purpose.


	12. Evangeline Monroe / @cheshirehatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was created by Polyvore user @cheshirehatter.

 

"How could you keep this from me for so long?!," Evangeline yelled, "I had a right to know who my father was! How could you have kept this from Father for so long? What about Auntie Domi? Does she know?"

Evangeline was flustered and, frankly, she had every right to be. Questions were racing out of her mouth as quickly as new ones were popping into her mind. The funeral for her father, Nikolai Monroe, had concluded earlier that day and the family was back at the Ivoryhelm manor. Evangeline's mother, Estella Monroe, had called her oldest daughter into the study, saying she needed to talk to her about something important. Then it all came out. Estella revealed to Evangeline that her biological father was the government assassin, Ambrose Lynch. She told her daughter all about the affair, how she passed Evangeline off as Nikolai's child, and how concealing this was all in her best interest.

"Darling," Estella calmly began, "I was the only one that knew. I hated keeping this secret, but I told myself it was all in your best interest. Could you imagine how people would look at you if they kn-"

"Don't you dare bring position into this! You hid all of this because you wanted to keep YOUR image pristine and perfect, not mine! How could you do this?!"

"This whole affair happened 22 years ago," Estella sighed, "and I still don't know how to answer for myself."

"What about Peony and Bryson? Are they more results of this affair?"

"No. No, your sister and brother are...Nikolai's blood."

Evangeline was trying to hold back tears at this point and failing miserably.

"Does this," Evangeline began, her voice cracking with every other syllable,"this...Ambrose Lynch...does he know about me?"

"No," Estella said sadly, "he didn't even know I was pregnant with you."

"This cannot be happening."

The tears began to fall from Evangeline's eyes even harder than before. Estella rushed over to her daughter, cupping her face in her hands and wiping away the tears.

"Listen to me, my darling, I know what I did was awful and I can never take it back, nor would I want to because it gave me you. You need to realize that your father-"

"Stop calling him that!," Evangeline cut her off, wriggling from her mother's grasp, "when we both know he really wasn't! I..I need some air."

Evangeline ran out of the study and towards the front doors, all while her mother was calling after her.

The 22-year old needed to get some time to let all this sink in, but how can you simply accept that half of your life was one gigantic lie? Evangeline realized that a simple walk through Ivoryhelm wasn't going to cut it this time. The, she realized what her perfect escape would be. The timing was perfect. On top of this recent drama she had to endure, the Hazard family was getting severely on her nerves. Also, Evangeline was sick and tired of Lord Mayor Everett Norval Jassop Steers' reign. He had been trying to take over Evangeline's family's position ever since she could remember and to no avail. It was official; all she had to do was pack. When everyone had gone to bed, Evangeline snuck away from Ivoryhelm. She left a note saying she loved them, but required time and that she would be safe. With her, she took clothing, necessities, and her favorite skeet rifle.

What she left out of her note, however, was that she would be joining the resistance.


	13. Matt Valentine / @klaus-seance-hargreeves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @klaus-seance-hargreeves.

Matt woke up one morning on the dingy mattress like every other morning before. He heated up some tea and looked out the window. The skyline was a nice sight out his warehouse windows that were coated in dirt. He poured himself a glass of his earl grey and carried it down the iron staircase to the main floor of his warehouse he called a home. He rested his mug on his wooden desk and started to work on his latest project. Matt overheard people talking that the government was trying half human, half machine, hybrids and he wanted to beat them to it. Hours past and his tea grew cold. He finally found he was out of parts and had to go out scouting for new materials. He packed a bag and made his trek to the main city, far away from the outskirts where he lived. Upon looking for scrap metal he started to eavesdrop on a small group talking about a rebellion. Matt couldn't help but put on a wicked smirk and he casually included himself in their conversation.


	14. Regina Godwin / @skylarthebichonpuppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @skylarthebichonpuppy.

_ At Regina Godwin’s coming out ball. _

I walked in the room and everyone's eyes were one me the beautiful blue dress was large with the appropriate skirt shape. I first noticed two things. One, The Steers family was here. Two, Gaylord Brook was standing at the bottom of the stairs with his loving eyes staring at me. I walked down with the elegance and grace of a lady of my social status. I curtsied at Gaylord as soon as I reached him.

“Good sir.”

“My Lady.” 

“How are you this fine evening?”

“Brilliant, May I have this dance?”

“You may.”

“Regina, I have to tell you something,” 

Lord Mayor was staring at us.

“Nevermind I do not believe that tis the time or place to do it now.”

“How shall I tell Regina I am part of the rebellion. I can not do it it seems as though Lord Mayor is suspicious.” Gaylord thought. 

***

_ A week later… _

“ My fair Lady.” 

Gaylord came running in at just before my horse riding lesson. I hopped down from the horse. landing carefully on the ground. 

“Yes, Gaylord?” 

“I have been drafted in the London-In-The-Air Army and have been requested in a battle in Spain.”

“Gaylord, must you leave me.” 

“I am afraid, I must, My lady.”

Then he dropped down on one knee taking my left hand with him. 

“Lady Regina Godwin of Kent, will you make me the happiest man alive and be my bride?”

He pulled out a ring. A beautiful ring. While I just stood in shock at the gesture.

“Yes,Gaylord,” Tears came to my eyes “We shall get married with my father’s permission after you return.” 

“Good-bye Regina.”

He left after leaving me the ring and with a beautiful kiss.

A month after the proposal…

Knock knock 

“Who is it?”

“Regina, Tis’ Liam. I am with Arthur. May we enter?”

“You may.”

I set down the pencil and book. Stood up and straighten my dress as my brothers came in. 

“Liam and Arthur.” I curtsied.

“Regina.” They bowed.

“What is your business, Brothers? Not to be too forward.”

“Regina, I am afraid we bring bad tidings.” Liam answered.

“Sister, News from the battlefield has come and Gaylord Brook was killed in battle.”Arthur finished 

“What? You are not pulling my leg are you.”

“No,we are not.”

I broke into tears and collapse on the floor in my nice dress and cried. Arthur and Liam got down and embraced me but it couldn't help, my heart was broken.

No,this isn't our fault.This is the government’s fault .They made Gaylord go into that dangerous battle. I, now shall spend the duration of my life trying to destroy them. For Gaylord.


	15. LITA Bros / @delusionsbybonnie and @sakuuya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by @delusionsbybonnie (aka [DelusionsbyBonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie)) and @sakuuya (aka [sakuuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuuya/)). Unlike other chapters in this story, it was not written for LITA Round 1, but it goes here chronologically.

Andrew pounded on the infirmary door, leaving a smear of blood. He swore and rubbed at it with his coat sleeve, getting most of it off. It probably didn't look any more suspicious than any other smear of grime on this platform. He glanced down the street again, searching the shadows for any gleam of brass buttons. He thought he'd lost them, but he couldn't be sure. Surely the man was still awake. There was a lamp burning in one of the windows. He needed to bloody well hurry up!

Dr. Jhandir, jolted from his reading by the pounding at his door, crept to the window and peered through the curtains. It wasn't entirely unusual to have a patient turn up so late, but he hadn't survived this long as a dead man by being incautious. He recognized the figure outside, though, so he undid the chain and opened his front door.

"I would say, 'good evening,' Mr. O'Rourke," he said as he helped the bleeding man over to the examination table, "but it seems that ship has sailed. What happened?"

Andrew leaned heavily against the table, gritting his teeth. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, and blood trickled from his hairline. "Coppers," he growled. "Lost 'em, I think. Lost my damn hat too." He took a shaky breath. "Glad you're home."

Dr. Jhandir carefully felt up and down Andrew's arm, then pushed his hair back to assess the severity of his cranial injury.

"Well, you've broken your humerus, and that cut will require suturing. Hold your arm with your other hand, please, and determine the least-painful angle while I get my things in order."

He gathered the necessary equipment: splints and cloth to set the arm, sterilized needles and catgut to sew up the cut. His hand froze over the drawer of anesthetics. Damn, he'd used the last of his morphine just the previous day, when Miss Daniels had gotten that enormous cut in the course of some kind of mechanical work.

"Mr. O'Rourke," Dr. Jhandir said as he turned around, "I'm afraid that, ah, I'm out of local anesthetic, which means that you have two options. You can wait in the safe house while I beg the medicine off another doctor—I'll disinfect that cut first, of course—or I can put you under general anesthetic, which means I would render you unconscious."

He didn't mention the third option, which was that he was actually quite skilled at anesthesia-free operation. It was considered archaic and barbaric now that ether and chloroform were readily available. He could imagine what the rebellion's rumor mill would churn out if it got wind of that little tidbit.

Andrew scowled. "Don't be bloody stupid. Just bring me the biggest bottle of whiskey you've got." The thought of waiting on the doctor to toddle off and find someone to beg the ether off of was intolerable, and getting knocked out... no. He didn't trust this slippery bastard that much.

"If you're sure. I don't believe I have whiskey, but if it's going to be the only buffer between you and my needle, you're welcome to whatever I do have. A moment, please."

Dr. Jhandir disappeared up the stairs to his flat and reemerged shortly carrying three expensive-looking bottles and a single glass.

"I'm afraid this is the lot of it," he said, setting them down. "Would you prefer vermouth, cognac, or chartreuse?"

"Whichever one's got more alcohol. Damned if I know the difference between 'em." Andrew grabbed a bottle at random and sloshed some into the glass, tossing it back with some relief. "This tastes expensive," he said with some displeasure.

"Well, it is," the doctor said sourly. He'd rather expected that the other man would be impressed. "That's extremely fine brandy you're drinking. I need to sterilize your head wound to stave off infection. It might sting." An understatement, but his pride was still stinging plenty. He soaked a cloth in carbolic acid and pressed it to Andrew's forehead.

Andrew swore and jerked his head back reflexively, then leaned forward again. "That bloody hurts, you-- might sting, my aunt Fanny," he muttered. He grabbed another bottle and filled the glass to the brim, taking a long swig and then gasping. "Oh hey, this is good stuff!" He finished the rest of the glass at a gulp and refilled it. "Slainte, Doc."

"Hmm? I don't think I heard that last bit properly. But yes, drink up. If carbolic acid hurts that much, you're nowhere near ready for me to seal that cut."

But Dr. Jhandir was pleased that the Irishman liked at least one of his bottles. Getting quality alcohol was nigh impossible on the lower platforms, and it was nice to see someone enjoying it—even if the way Andrew was guzzling the stuff was also mildly horrifying.

"Slainte. Means cheers." Andrew drained the glass and filled it again, hand rather less steady than it had been. "In Gaelic. 'S what we speak, y'know. Not that the bloody British didn't try to outlaw it, damn their eyes."

"I wasn't aware of that, but it certainly sounds like something those colonialist bastards would do."

This was already more words than Dr. Jhandir had ever exchanged at one time before with Andrew, who usually passed their encounters in stoic silence. But the ability to talk freely with another person about the hated British was a rare thing. Even in his letters home, he was circumspect; there was no guarantee that mail would pass into and out of the Raj unmolested. Besides, Andrew was quickly becoming so inebriated that he'd barely remember this conversation in the morning. In such circumstances, Dr. Jhandir could risk a bit of candor.

"The crown formally took over my country just after I was born; I've gone to British schools my whole life. I taught myself to speak this way because I thought it would garner respect." The doctor's voice dripped with venom. "And all that's come of it is that I speak my mother tongue like a puffed-up invader these days."

"Damn 'em all. Lick their boots like a dog and they'll still kick you like one." Andrew finished off the glass again and splashed some more into it, slopping a bit onto the examination table. "Whoops. Pardon. D'you know whiskey is Gaelic? Means water." He grinned crookedly and raised the glass. "God damn the queen."

Dr. Jhandir held his hand as though it were clutching a glass and "clinked" it against Andrew's raised one.

"Damn her straight to hell. And don't worry about the spill. Alcohol is antiseptic, you know. Before too long, you'll be the most hygienic thing in this operating room."

He smiled when he said it, but he still grabbed a cloth and mopped up the spilled vermouth.

"How do you feel? Is the pain diminishing at all? I'd quite like to get that arm set."

Andrew laughed. "Never been called hygienic before!" He tossed back the glass and set it on the table. "Feelin' a lot better, Doc. Warm and fuzzy, y'know. 'S good stuff." He poked at his left arm, concentrating hard. "Yeah, think I'll be all right. You want me to sit down or somethin'?"

Dr. Jhandir pulled his desk chair over. "Yes, have a seat here."

Ordinarily, he'd have patients hop up onto the examination table itself, but that seemed ill-advised when the patient in question was too drunk to feel a fractured humerus. Once Andrew was seated, Dr. Jhandir got to work holding the broken bone in place with splints. The area was neither swollen nor discolored, which meant the fracture had caused minimal damage to the surrounding tissue. Once he finished setting the arm, he tied a sling around it so it hung at the angle Andrew had indicated was the least painful.

Andrew grunted, shifting uncomfortably, but the procedure went quickly enough. "That wasn't so bad, Doc. You're pretty damn good at this, y'know?"

"I know. I have to be—most people in this godforsaken city would rather be treated by some lily-white Brit even if he can't tell his forceps from his specula. No one would look at me twice, were I anything less than the best."

Dr. Jhandir paused for a moment to calm himself down before continuing in a more businesslike tone.

"Of course, that was the easy part. I still need to sew up your forehead. I'll be quick, provided you don't move, but it will hurt rather a lot, even with your makeshift anesthesia."

"Oh damn. Forgot about that." Andrew looked suddenly uncomfortable. "All right, go ahead. I'll try not to move." He really didn't like the idea of getting poked in the head with a needle, but it was necessary, and he was a grown man. He could manage.

"Good. Then this will take only a moment."

Dr. Jhandir threaded his eyed surgical needle, placed a hand on Andrew's shoulder to curtail any reflexive movement, and began to stitch.

Andrew set his jaw and leaned back into the chair, humming a tune that the doctor didn't recognize. He gripped the arms of the chair and fidgeted, muttering a quiet oath every so often.

And very shortly, it was done. Dr. Jhandir wrapped gauze around Andrew's head to protect the row of neat stitches.

"There we are. All finished. Leave the bandage on for two days," the doctor instructed. "It will itch as it heals. Don't pick at it, but if you start running a fever or you notice any pus leaking from the wound, come right back here. Otherwise, come back in a week and I'll take the stitches out. And actually...it may be for the best that you stay in the safe house tonight. You're in no shape to avoid the constabulary if they're still after you."

Andrew stood and then sat abruptly down again, laughing. "Think you're right, Doc. Damn. 'S good drink. Did I tell you that? Good drink." He climbed to his feet again and slapped the doctor's shoulder with his good hand. "Thanks, Doc. Think I wouldn't mind not havin' to walk home tonight."

"Wait a moment while I wash up, and I'll see you upstairs. I lock the safe house when it's unoccupied." Dr. Jhandir said as he soaped and scrubbed his hands in the office sink. In fact, he doubted that the other man could make it up the stairs unassisted, and a tumble down them would undo all of his hard work.

Andrew nodded, swaying slightly. "Right y'are, Doc. So long as there's a warm bed at the end of it. Beats the gutter for sure." He grinned. "All told, I've still had worse nights. There was this time in Dublin when I fell out of a second-story window into a load of horse shite from the stables next door that still had the pitchfork sticking out of it..."

Dr. Jhandir winced and inhaled sharply. "I hope whoever fixed you up after that had real painkillers, at least. After you," he added, gesturing up the stairs. He needed to finish cleaning up (and he had to remember to put his liquor away, lest other patients assume it was for them as well), but that could wait until Andrew was safe in one of the safe house beds.

"Ta." Andrew slowly made his way up the stairs, setting his feet down very carefully. "This stairway seems longer'n it ought to be. 'm I just that drunk?"

"You are indeed that drunk," Dr. Jhandir said. "Watch your step."

He helped Andrew up the last few stairs—it was either that, he felt, or risk being crushed if the other man fell backwards. After he retrieved the key from its hiding place, he almost handed it over, but decided otherwise. In his current state, Andrew would just scratch up his wall trying to find the keyhole. Dr. Jhandir unlocked the secret door himself instead.

"Here we are. Courtesy of Daphne Massey."

"God love her," Andrew said happily, wandering through the doorway. "Nobody else in there, aye? My brother says I snore terrible loud when I'm drunk."

"I'll be in the other flat, of course, but you have this one all to yourself." Dr. Jhandir was beginning to regret not pushing for unanesthetized facial surgery. "Do you need anything else? The beds haven't been aired, but I doubt that will bother you."

"Should be fine. Good night, Doc!" Andrew stumbled to the closest bed and collapsed onto it, managing to kick off his boots before succumbing to sleep.

Dr. Jhandir could hear the snoring even as he cleaned his operating room downstairs. He did a particularly thorough job, in the hope that Andrew would quiet down, but to no avail. When he finally gave up and gathered his liquor, he also brought the current _Lancet_ upstairs with him. It was going to be a long night.

***

Andrew awoke with a pounding headache and a throbbing left arm. He mumbled a curse and pulled his boots back on before heading back down to the clinic. At least it was his day off... Maybe he could bum a cup of tea from the doctor before he left.

As luck would have it, Dr. Jhandir was in the parlor of his flat, dressed and waiting on the kettle, which started to whistle just as Andrew came out of the safe house.

"Good morning, Mr. O'Rourke. Would you like some tea?"

Andrew winced at the shrill whistle. "Aye, please." He slouched against the doorframe, cradling his head in his good hand.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Jhandir asked. He poured two cups of tea and gave one to Andrew. "And, crucially, how much of last night do you remember? I want that head wound to heal properly, so if I need to reiterate the proper way to care for stitches, I will."

Andrew sipped at the cup gratefully. It was bitter and scalding, and eased the headache slightly. "Well, I think I remember saying enough about the Crown to get myself hanged for treason, but aside from that, I don't remember much. You'll probably want to tell me anything important again."

"Leave the bandage on until tomorrow evening," the doctor said, as if reciting something he'd memorized by rote. "Don't scratch at the sutures, no matter how strongly they itch, but if they hurt more than the initial wound did, or if it starts to leak pus, come see me immediately. If everything goes well, you'll be ready to have them taken out in a week."

He looked down into his cup and smiled tiredly.

"As for treason against the crown, I'll breathe not a word of it. This whole rebellion can be terribly British sometimes, and I've no more love for our imperialist overlords than you do." He found himself unexpectedly disappointed that the other man didn't remember any of the more candid things he'd said the previous night, though that had been exactly what he'd been counting on at the time.

Andrew nodded. "Shouldn't be too hard to take care of it. A week's not too long." He could remember that. Don't scratch it. Not that he could do much with one arm anyway. Bugger. How was he going to keep his job with a broken arm? But the doctor was still talking.

"Right. They're decent types, but they're..." He gestured with the teacup, almost sloshing a bit over the rim. "They don't know how good they've got it. Nobody tries to give them trouble 'cause of how they talk or who their da was."

"Precisely. It's not their fault they were born on this gloomy little island. But they're still part of the hegemonic—the dominant country, I mean," Dr. Jhandir appended, aware of who he was talking to. "They'll never know what it is to have another nation swan in and try to uproot their whole culture. How long have the redcoats been in Ireland?"

Andrew laughed bitterly. "Seven hundred years, since they were still bloody knights in armor. I don't know all the history, but my brother could tell you every bit." He finished off the tea. "Liam's fighting in Dublin, helping Ireland win her independence. I can't be there with him, so I'm making as much of a ruckus over here as I can."

"If the injuries you sustained last night are any indication, you must be giving them plenty of hell." Dr. Jhandir frowned, then added, "Or you could have been walking in the wrong neighborhood while Irish, which I imagine is an equally despicable crime. Walking in the wrong neighborhood while Indian certainly is."

Andrew grinned. "You should see the other bastards. Sure I was in the wrong neighborhood, but that was on purpose." He paused and frowned. "You ever get in this much trouble just for bein' Indian? But you're a toff. You've got learnin' and that takes money. They still chuck you on the midden?"

"Oh, I've not suffered to nearly the extent you have, I'd wager. The constabulary, for instance, assumes that anyone who dresses well is more trouble to arrest than their jobs are worth. But the laboratory where I used to work is all the way up on Γ, and one night I thought it would be pleasant to walk through Golden Crossing before going home. Well, the short version is that I was set upon by a trio of drunken public-school boors who didn't care how I dressed or spoke, or even where I worked, only that I was from the Raj. They beat me so severely that I was unconscious for two days."

Dr. Jhandir's hands shook slightly as he drained the last of his tea.

Andrew swore softly. "Damn jumped-up pretty boys with their rich fathers' money. If I'd been there, it woulda been a different story."

The doctor smiled. "Oh, don't worry. All three of them died a few weeks later, actually. I was called in to do the autopsies because poison was suspected." His grin widened. "But I didn't find anything I didn't expect. Would you like some more tea?"

Andrew laughed and handed over his teacup. "Aye, I would. I think if you were going to poison me, you'd have done it before I drank half your liquor cabinet."

As Dr. Jhandir refilled their cups, he laughed too. "And I certainly wouldn't do it in my own parlor. But, ah, I would appreciate it if you kept that story to yourself. I have enough trouble convincing our fellow revolutionaries to trust me to treat them as it is."

"Of course. I don't spread gossip about our people." He grinned. "They ought to know they've got nothin' to worry about so long as they're not ruddy bastards anyhow. Though... I understand. You did work for the Retties for a while. God knows I wouldn't have come to you that first time if there'd been anywhere else to go, but sometimes I don't mind bein' wrong."

"Thank you, Mr. O'Rourke," Dr. Jhandir said. He was honestly a bit taken aback. "I appreciate your confidence in me, all the more so because I understand your initial trepidation. Believe me, I harbor no lingering affection for the government of our fair city." He snorted. "Any one of them I'd poison in a heartbeat, even if it meant my parlor would eternally stink of their remains."

Andrew grinned. "Don't worry about that last bit. Strip the body of valuables and identifying marks, and I know a spot where even if it is found, nobody will give a damn. No need to stink up your house. And Doc, don't call me Mr O'Rourke. Just O'Rourke is fine, or Andrew if you like."

"Ah, yes, that would be ideal." The idea of watching Beck, or Kern, or Hazard, or any of his other former employers breath their last in front of him was a pleasant thought, and one Dr. Jhandir entertained regularly. "Andrew. It's been...revelatory talking to you this morning. But I'm due on Π soon—Irving Suttler couldn't cut himself out of a paper sack. You are, of course, welcome to remain in the safe house until you feel comfortable leaving. Assuming you leave before I return, though, I'll see you in a week to remove those stitches, correct?"

"Aye, sir. One week. Thank ye again, Doc. Ah,and about that... how much do I owe you?" He did have a bit saved up, but with a busted arm, he'd only be able to work so much... damn. He'd survived the coppers, and wasn't in jail now, but they might still get him in the end.

Dr. Jhandir waved a hand dismissively. "There is no better use of money the government paid me than spending it to keep their enemies in fighting shape. You don't owe me a cent."

Andrew looked temporarily stunned, then grinned in relief. "Thanks, Doc. I owe you one."

"You're welcome," the doctor said with a smile. "Oh, and what kind of liquor did you say you drink? Since we have a follow-up appointment, I'd like to be prepared if my supply of anesthesia runs out again—though of course I'll endeavor to ensure that doesn't happen," he added quickly.

"Whiskey. Scotch is fine, but Irish is better." He set the teacup down and shook the doctor's hand. "I'll be gettin' out of your way now. Good day, Doc."

"Good day, Andrew. Try to stay out of trouble until you've healed up." He smiled again. "After that, though, it is my professional opinion that you should continue giving them hell."

"Thank you, sir. I will." Andrew grinned.

As he emerged onto the street, he checked his pocket for his brass knuckles, pleased that even through all the ruckus of last night, they stayed put. It was a beautiful day after all, wasn't it? He whistled a rebel song as he strolled home.

***

Dr. Jhandir straightened his cravat in the mirror. It felt ridiculous to admit, even to himself, but he was actually nervous about tonight’s outing. He hadn’t had a night on the town in nearly a decade, initially because few high-end establishments were open to men of his race, and more recently because he was trying to keep a low profile. From the sound of it, he was unlikely to be recognized at the pub Andrew was taking him to, but he was still apprehensive. He wouldn’t have even agreed to go drink anywhere but the safe confines of his parlor if Andrew hadn’t been so enthusiastic about the idea. He checked his pocket watch, nodded at his reflection, and went down to his office to wait for Andrew.

Andrew knocked on the door and took a step back to wait, whistling jauntily. He was really looking forward to this evening, considering how well their weekly nights of drinking had been going. Sure, Andrew’s usual haunt was a little lowbrow compared to what Doc was probably used to, but the man lived on Omega now. It would be an interesting learning experience for him, and he’d have to get used to it eventually. Had he even been out of his flat in the time he’d lived here? Andrew didn’t actually know for sure. Maybe he’d ask sometime.

Dr. Jhandir opened the door wearing, for the first time in a long while, one of his good suits, a dove-gray three-piece offset by a lavender cravat and patterned pocket square. “Andrew!” he said with as much jollity as he could muster under the circumstances. “As always, it’s a pleasure to see you. Shall we be off right away, or would you like to step inside first?”

“Saints and angels, Doc, you look like a bloody Member of Parliament. Let me in.” Andrew pushed his way inside without waiting for a reply, shutting the door firmly behind him. “D’ye want to end up coshed on the head in an alley? That’s what happens to men dressed like that in the places I go to. Go put on one of the old ones, something I’d wear.”

“...I just wanted to make a good impression,” Dr. Jhandir said after a moment, surprised by the force of Andrew’s reaction. “I’ve never gone to a pub before. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was riffraff.”

Andrew gave him a look. “Doc, I’m riffraff. That's exactly what you want people to think.”

The doctor scowled, but only because he knew Andrew was right. “If you believe it’s that important, I’ll change. Wait here.” He disappeared up the stairs to his flat.

Andrew sat on one of the wooden chairs to wait, tipping it back onto two legs. When it gave a complaining creak, he quickly shifted his weight back down to all four. Getting patched up after a fight was one thing, but needing medical attention after breaking a piece of his host’s furniture was something he was not prepared to deal with.

A couple minutes later, Dr. Jhandir reappeared in a much less ostentatious taupe sack coat and trousers, looking grumpy. He pointedly adjusted his frayed cuffs as he descended the stairs. “Will this do?” he asked, spreading his arms so Andrew could get a good look.

“Much better,” Andrew grunted, standing and cracking his neck. “We're going to the Horse and Hounds, and that's a working man's pub. The less you look like Doland and his ilk, the better.”

Dr. Jhandir snorted. “Little chance of anyone mistaking me for a British industrialist, regardless of my mode of dress. But I take your meaning, I think.” He went over to the door and held it open for Andrew. “Lead the way.”

Andrew led the way through grubby streets toward the docks at the edge of the platform. The smell was better than the docks of Dublin, if only by merit of the lack of rotting fish and seaweed, but even what unpleasantness there was did not phase the big man. They passed a group of ladybirds, to whom Andrew tipped his cap respectfully, and turned into an alley. Andrew led the way up a set of rickety steps that ended under a sign depicting an indistinct group of quadrupeds no doubt meant to be the eponymous horse and hounds. A scuffed wooden door opened onto a warm and boisterous interior full of men and women who all seemed to resemble either Andrew or the group of prostitutes outside.

The smells of sweat and cheap beer from the pub’s interior were actually something of a relief for Dr. Jhandir, after the awful stench of the streets they’d travelled through. Still, he was stiff as a board as he followed his friend inside. He’d lived in London-in-the-Air for nearly half his life, but here he was unquestionably a stranger. His eyes darted back and forth as he tried to assess the danger from every corner of the place, but all the signifiers were so alien to him that he had no idea what to expect. He stuck so close to Andrew that he might as well have been the bigger man’s shadow.

Andrew ploughed through the crowd like an ocean liner, leaving plenty of space in his wake for the smaller man to follow. When they reached the bar, sprawling across half the back wall, he bent closer to the doctor and spoke loudly enough to be heard over the other voices. “We’ll order drinks and go sit down! Pick a bench. There’s no private booths here.” Getting the mustachio’d bartender’s attention with a wave of his hand, he ordered a beer for himself and gently elbowed his friend.

“Oh! Ah, may I see your wine list?” Dr. Jhandir tried to mask his posh accent with a more Indian one and ended up sounding...well, certainly foreign, anyway. His fingers drummed nervously against the bar.

“See wot?” the barman asked, brow furrowed. “Didn’t catch that! You a foreigner?”

“Give ‘im somethin’ top shelf, Jim,” Andrew intervened. “New in town. Cousin of a mate. From the Raj, y’know.”

The man nodded, this explanation clearly passing muster. A few moments later, a pint glass and a smaller one thunked down onto the wood before the two men. Andrew took a swig from the pint, drastically lessening the likelihood of an errant bump spilling any of the alcohol, and started making his way toward a table.

Dr. Jhandir caught a carelessly-flung elbow in the side as they moved through the crowd. His glass wasn’t full enough to spill anything, but he glared at the boor who’d struck him—until the man’s drinking companions turned to stare at him as well. The doctor lowered his gaze, clearly outmatched, but tried to remember their faces. Just in case.

Once he was seated with Andrew, Dr. Jhandir cautiously sipped his mystery drink. Immediately, he started coughing. “What is this?” he hissed. “It tastes like petrol!”

“Damned if I know.” Andrew sniffed at it, then took a cautious sip. “Gin? It’s probably been sittin’ on that shelf for a while. If you want something else, we’ll get it, but Jim probably doesn’t have anything you’ve ever had before. The beer’s good though. I like it, anyhow. Here, you don’t have to get up again. We’ll get Sadie to get you somethin’. Sadie!” he bellowed, waving down a woman whose confident demeanor belied her rat’s nest of a hairstyle.

As the serving-woman sauntered over, Dr. Jhandir attempted to smile. His smile was not his best feature even in optimal circumstances, and here it felt particularly forced. This woman was apparently important enough that Andrew was on a first-name basis with her, though, so Dr. Jhandir had to at least try to make a good impression. Once Sadie was at the table, he said, in his slurry of a fabricated accent, “I’d like a beer please. I wanted to try the gin”—he indicated his barely-touched glass—”but it doesn’t agree with me.” Because it’s swill, he did not add.

“Sure thing, darlin’!” the woman said in a broad American accent. “Be right back with it.” She and winked at Andrew and bustled away.

“I think she likes you. Nobody thinks that accent is real though.” Andrew took a long swig of beer. “She's been after me for months. Likes ‘em redheaded, our Sadie.”

“Why haven’t you taken her up on her offer?” Dr. Jhandir asked once Sadie was out of earshot. “She’s pretty enough, fraudulent accent or no.” He chuckled. “And I can’t exactly cast aspersions in that department. I should have planned better—practiced my accent and figured out in advance what’s potable, at the very least.”

Andrew reddened. “Not my type,” he mumbled, taking another long swig of beer. He avoided eye contact with Sadie as she set two generously full pints in front of them, and she flounced off in a huff in the direction of another customer.

Dr. Jhandir laughed. “Oh, so what is your type, then? It almost sounds like you have someone in mind.” He tried the beer, made a face. “It doesn’t taste like it was aged in an airship engine, but that’s the highest praise I’ll give.”

Andrew stiffened at the mention of airships. “Captain French,” he muttered, draining his first pint and wrapping his hands possessively around the second one.

Dr. Jhandir, who had continued sipping his beer for the sake of politesse, started coughing again, and covered his mouth with his hand. When he’d recovered, he asked, “Cordelia French?” as though either of them knew a different Captain French. “I suppose she’s a very handsome woman. I simply never would have guessed.” He saw his friend’s expression and added, “Oh, come now. It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

“She’d never look twice at me. ‘m just a working bloke, and she’s got her own bloody airship!” Andrew stared despairingly into his beer, shoulders hunched. “She’s a real lady.”

“I admit, thought had crossed my mind,” Dr. Jhandir said slowly. “But I don’t believe Cpt. French burdens herself overmuch with what’s proper for someone of her station. She’s an educated woman, Andrew—I mean truly educated; she must have gone to some of the finest schools in the country. Someone with that sort of background wouldn’t flit off to pilot an airship if she had any compunctions about mingling with the lower class.” He took another sip of beer to punctuate this statement and grimaced. “Besides, I’m more out of place here than she would be stepping out with you, and you managed to convince me to come.”

“That's different,” Andrew protested. “You coming here--” He broke off and sighed. “I don't know. Maybe you're right. She don't act like a toff. And she knows I'm a good worker.”

“Of course I’m right,” Dr. Jhandir replied with a touch of self-satisfaction. “She’s had nothing but praise for you whenever you’ve come up in conversation. I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, of course, but the evidence suggests she would be amenable to seeing you in a romantic context.”

Andrew looked taken aback at the idea that his name had come up in conversation with the lady herself. “Oh. That's… did she really?” he asked, sounding dazed.

Dr. Jhandir nodded. “She did. In fact, she once told me that, given the choice, she would always prefer that you handle her cargo. Not the most passionate sentiment, perhaps, but she’s obviously fond of you. And you’ve given no indication whatsoever of your interest?”

Andrew, suddenly struck by an alternate interpretation of “handling her cargo,” blushed furiously. “No, of course not!” he protested. “I… didn’t feel it was my place.”

Dr. Jhandir set down his beer and made a dismissive gesture. “I told you, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said, completely misunderstanding his friend’s reaction. “But you must be manful and upfront if you ever want your affections reciprocated. At our age, we can ill afford to wait around praying a woman notices, and Cordelia in particular is very...direct. You must be direct with her in turn. How can she return the feelings of a man without the courage even to speak his heart?”

The doctor pounded the table for emphasis, which had the unfortunate effect of jostling his beer off the edge and onto his lap. He stood up, cursing loudly.

Unfortunately, another patron was passing behind him at the same moment. They collided, sloshing beer down the man’s front. He whirled, swearing angrily, one fist already raised. Andrew stood quickly, ready to intervene if need be.

Dr. Jhandir instinctively flinched away from the raised fist. When he regained his composure (or, at least, as much of it as could be regained while wearing a cheap, dripping suit) after a moment, he looked the man in the eye and said, “Excuse me. I didn’t see you there, or I would have been more careful.” He managed to keep the annoyance from his voice for the most part, but he was too cross to bother disguising his accent. It was just as well, he thought, if this oaf realized the kind of man he was threatening.

The man surveyed the doctor carefully, then looked up at Andrew. “Yeah. All roight.” He dropped his hand and shrugged.

Andrew smiled and clapped him on the back. “Good man. Let’s get you another pint. Sadie!” he called. “Sadie! ...Damn. I think she’s still angry with me. Come on then, let’s go get you another. Anil, stay here.” With one hand firmly on the man’s shoulder, Andrew made his way through the crowd back to the bar.

Dr. Jhandir wanted to protest, but this was only the third or fourth time Andrew had called him by his given name since they had become friends, so the Irishman must have been serious. The doctor sat glumly in the press of grimy strangers, trying to move as little as possible, lest he cause another calamity. The cheap material of his suit was soaked through with beer, but he didn’t dare go clean himself off lest Andrew come back to find him missing. Besides, he shuddered to think of the state of the washroom in a place like this.

Bereft of even a drink on which to focus his attention, Dr. Jhandir let his gaze wander among the crowd. No one seemed to be paying him any mind, but he did accidentally lock eyes with a young woman showing altogether too much skin. He quickly averted his gaze.

His discretion did no good, for she came sidling over to him, slipping into the chair Andrew had vacated. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and bringing her collarbones into sharp relief. “Hullo, stranger,” she purred. “Lonely?”

“Decidedly not,” Dr. Jhandir replied flatly, refusing to look at her. After all the indignities he’d suffered tonight, he was in no mood to mince words with some streetwalker. “I’m sure there are any number of men here who would appreciate some, ah, companionship, but I am not among them. Kindly take your filth elsewhere.” At least Andrew wasn’t here to lecture him (again!) on the socioeconomic factors that led women to sell themselves in bars. He was in no mood for that, either.

She frowned, drawing in a breath, but was overcome by a violent coughing fit. She pulled a handkerchief spotted with dried blood from her cleavage and buried her face in it, shoulders shaking. When she tucked the handkerchief back, it was flecked with bright new spots of red, and her face was decidedly paler. “Sorry to disturb you, guv,” she rasped, heaving herself up from the chair with slightly shaking hands.

Andrew, holding two fresh pints, stood back respectfully to let her pass. “You met Lizzie then,” he said, sitting and nudging one of them toward his friend. “She’ll be dead of consumption inside of three months, God love her. Best bloody thing about it is she’s got no children at home.”

“How does she make a living?” Dr. Jhandir asked as he accepted his beer. “It’s unlikely anyone would catch tuberculosis from a single night with her, but it still seems ill-worth the risk, to say nothing of how unpleasant the experience itself would be.” He grimaced. As a doctor, he couldn’t be squeamish about being covered in a stranger’s blood, but there was a world of difference between performing a messy surgery and hiring a prostitute only to have her start coughing up bits of lung. “If she’s as far along as you say, she should be in a sanitorium instead of plying her trade in some dockside pub.”

“A sanitorium? That takes money, Doc. Or somebody’s charity, and the good Christian people of the city would rather give their money to the deserving poor instead of some dockside whore.” Andrew took a long drink. “Judgmental bourgeois bastards.”

Dr. Jhandir, who strongly suspected that he fell under the judgemental bourgeois bastards heading, nodded. “Yes, I see the difficulty. A pity. Tuberculosis is not a pretty death. You should stay away from her, incidentally. Prolonged social contact greatly increases the rate of transmission.” He started in on his fresh drink, but shook his head after a moment. “Not that I believe you’re seeing her in an, ah, professional context!” he added hurriedly.

“No, I'm no mollynogger. I’ve slipped her a bit of money from time to time.” Andrew fidgeted with his pint. “I can’t do much, but I can do something. ‘t ain’t right.”

“Your compassion does you credit, Andrew,” Dr. Jhandir said carefully. The last damn thing he needed was for this conversation to turn to how much more he could be doing to help the less fortunate. He realized he was scowling and schooled his face to a more neutral expression. “I simply want to be sure that you’re taking care. Our...botanical society would be a much poorer place without you.”

“Of course. I wouldn't do anything too daft. Can't see how the world wouldn't be better off when we… accomplish our goals.” Andrew smiled wryly and raised his glass. “Damn the lot of them!” He drained his pint.

“I’ll certainly drink to that!” Dr. Jhandir smiled and raised his glass as well. When he tried to imitate his friend and take a long draught of his own beer, though, he could barely keep from spitting it back out. “Excuse me,” he said after he’d managed to choke it down. “I don’t know how you ever got used to drinking this rubbish.”

“Well, when you don’t know any better, it tastes just fine.” Andrew grinned. “And the more you drink, the better it gets.” He surveyed his empty glass ruefully. “Suppose I have to go get my own now. Damn. Women are bloody complicated.”

“You are not leaving me here alone again,” Dr. Jhandir said firmly. “I don’t like the look of, to be perfectly frank, anyone, and I know that man whose drink I spilled only backed down because you were looming over him. If you’re unable to rectify whatever it is you did to upset Sadie, I’ll come up to the bar with you.”

“Best come up with me then.” Andrew heaved himself to his feet and sighed. “I don’t think I’ll be making up with Sadie anytime soon. She holds grudges like no one else I know. And I suppose we ought to get you a rag. Sorry.” He surveyed the doctor’s beer-soaked suit with mild guilt.

“Hmph. Yes. Well, at least I’m not wearing anything of value. It’s no real loss if this suit is ruined. You were right to make me change.” Dr. Jhandir stood up, grabbed his still-mostly-full pint, and followed Andrew back up to the bar.

“Did you never get anything spilled on you in your toff places?” Andrew asked curiously. “Or is it all so expensive that they're more careful than that?” Catching Jim's eye, he held up one finger, and the man nodded.

“Well…” Dr. Jhandir hesitated. “A more, ah, genteel restaurant would have stabler tables and fewer people crowded in, but essentially, yes. When there’s something of value in the balance—and here I refer to both attire and alcohol—people do take more care. Besides”—the doctor looked down at himself with a scowl—“anyone gauche enough to knock over a glass in such an establishment would obviously lack the breeding to dine there in the first place. If one wants to mingle with nobility, one must be able to keep up appearances.” He took another swig of his beer. It still tasted terrible, but he could do with being a bit less sober right now, and it was a far sight better than that ghastly gin.

Andrew nodded. “Sounds like a bunch of stuffed shirts trying to impress each other. Ta, Jim.” He took a long swig of his fresh drink. “Did you go to many? I mean, did they let you in and all?”

“Not to any of the prestigious old-money establishments. Goodness, no. But curries are popular with the upper class right now—crown jewel of the empire and all that rubbish—and it’s not unheard-of for well-heeled Indians to eat at posh curry houses. Those places are...disconcerting.” Dr. Jhandir waved a hand vaguely as he tried to think of a point of comparison. “Imagine if disreputable pubs like this one were suddenly in fashion, and toffs started flocking to facsimiles to drink overpriced beer and pretend to appreciate the ‘culture.’” His tone was pure venom. “All while of course paying no attention to the way that culture is warped and subjugated by people like them.”

“Saints and angels! That’s bloody awful.” Andrew looked simultaneously revolted and fascinated. “And the curry’s probably no good either, is it? Imperialist bastards. They ruin bloody everything. I know you can’t get a decent dark beer in this forsaken place. It’s all the color of horse piss, or worse, that bloody pale ale. Why drink at all if what you’re drinkin’s got no color?”

Dr. Jhandir glanced at his beer with even more suspicion than usual. “The one thing I prefer about living in this section of the city is that the higher immigrant population makes it much easier to find Indian or Arabian shops.” He smiled ruefully. “Buying food is about the only thing I leave my flat to do, truthfully. But is there no similar demand for Irish beer? I would imagine there are enough of your countrymen in London-in-the-Air who don’t enjoy drinking this…” he gestured to his glass, but couldn’t bring himself to repeat Andrew’s vulgarity.

Andrew shrugged. “Maybe I just haven’t found it yet. I don’t get out too often as it is, but I’d hope one of the lads would let me know if he found something. It’s not as if there’s no place to get dark beer in the city, but none of it’s any good.” He squinted at his half-empty pint. “How many is this now, three? Let me tell you, Doc, the worst bloody thing about being a big strapping Irishman is just how much it costs to get cupshot  around here.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that tonight, at least. I am honor-bound to provide the alcohol,” Dr. Jhandir said with a smile, “even if you force me to drink beer. If you want something stronger, though, we could retire back to my flat. I can’t drink this stuff fast enough for it to have any effect, and you know I don’t have nearly your capacity for drink.” He tried to keep his tone light and avoid betraying just how hopeful he was that Andrew would take him up on his offer.

Andrew grunted. “Maybe you're right. Quit before I get even farther behind, is that what you're sayin’?” He tossed back the rest of the pint and set it firmly on the bar, but as he turned to go, he came face-to-face with a man who forcefully resembled a bulldog in a bowler hat.

“What have I told you about upsetting my girl, eh, O'Rourke?”

“Sadie’s not your girl, Morris, and she ain't mine either. I've told you that a hundred times.” Andrew tried to sidestep the man to no avail.

“You're a damn Papist liar, O'Rourke!” Morris’s face was turning a blotchy red.

“And you're a drunk limey. Bugger off, Morris. Go comfort Sadie if you're so damn worried about her.”

“Not this time, O'Rourke! This time we settle it.” He took a step closer.

“You mean this time I kick your arse again for no good reason?”

“Andrew—” Dr. Jhandir tried to interject, but too late.

“Oh it's a damn good reason!” Morris swung at the larger man.

Dr. Jhandir, unused to bar brawls, recoiled even though the violence wasn’t aimed at him. This was Andrew’s area of expertise, not his, and the Irishman had sobriety on his side. The best thing to do, Dr. Jhandir figured, was give his friend some space to handle the problem. He backed away, his eyes still on Morris in case the drunk tried anything that required intervention. That meant that he wasn’t looking where he was backing, and in such a crowded pub, it was inevitable that he’d run into someone.

“Ah, excuse me—” the doctor said as he turned...and looked up into the face of the same man whose drink he had spilled earlier.

“Son of a--!” The man swore, grabbing a handful of the doctor’s coat. “You little bastard. You wanna learn to watch where you’re going!”

By this time, Andrew and Morris were grappling on the floor near an overturned table, and a crowd of people were standing in a circle and watching. One of the ladybirds appeared to be taking bets, tucking pound notes into her cleavage.

“Unhand me!” Dr. Jhandir yelped, trying to pull away. Even inebriated, though, the other man was significantly stronger, and the doctor’s suit wasn’t quite cheap enough to tear in his grip. For the moment, he seemed content to simply hurl invectives in Dr. Jhandir’s face, but that situation might not last, and Andrew was otherwise occupied.

The doctor barely registered the insults themselves—why should he care what an obvious inferior thought of him? Instead, under the pretense of continuing to squirm away, he carefully wrapped a hand around the man’s right thumb and yanked down, hard. The man howled and released him.

“You broke my thumb!” the wounded man yelled, cradling it. Dr. Jhandir smiled smugly. He’d merely dislocated it, lacking the leverage or brute strength necessary to do more damage, but he wasn’t about to share that information with his assailant. “You little—!”

Dr. Jhandir wasn’t expecting the punch to the face. It knocked him to the floor, and he could taste blood from where his teeth had cut into the inside of his cheek. Damn it all, his attacker was left handed. And it had been such a good plan, too.

Andrew swore and slammed Morris into the floor with a thud, blinking blood out of his right eye. “Stay down, damn you,” he gasped, resting his elbow between the man’s shoulderblades. Morris didn’t reply, and when Andrew sat up slowly, he realized his opponent was thoroughly unconscious. The ladybird taking bets started handing out winnings, and Andrew stood and started looking around for his friend. He realized that the ring around his fight with Morris had reformed a few feet away, and peering over heads, he realized why. Swearing, he shouldered his way through the crowd toward the doctor on the floor.

It wasn’t a fight worth betting on. Dr. Jhandir was managing to keep his face more-or-less shielded by his forearms, but not to fight back in any meaningful sense. Despite having full use of only one hand, the man above him was relentless, raining down blow after blow without giving the doctor a moment to collect his thoughts.

Andrew grabbed the doctor’s assailant by the scruff of the neck, dragging him off and giving him a good shake. When the man used the shake to help squirm out of his jacket and come for Andrew, it was a matter of moments for Andrew to toss the coat in his face and lay him out with a couple of well-placed blows.

Andrew wiped his forehead, leaving a smear of sweat and blood across his sleeve, and gave the already-dispersing crowd a meaningful look. When he was sure no one’s friend was going to come for revenge, he bent down beside the smaller man and touched his shoulder. “Doc? You still alive down there?”

Dr. Jhandir groaned as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. His lip was split and bleeding, and bruises were already starting to blossom in a couple spots on his face. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve—the coat was ruined, so a little more blood wouldn’t hurt—then gingerly felt up and down his sides.

“I’ve endured worse,” he said hoarsely. “No broken bones, as far as I can discern, but everything hurts like hell. Here, help me up.”

Andrew gingerly lifted the doctor up onto his feet, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder. “That bastard. Beating a man while he’s down. Hope I broke his damn jaw.”

“I don’t suppose you know his name, or where he lodges?” Dr. Jhandir asked. He was taking short, shallow breaths and leaning on Andrew for support. “Even breaking his jaw doesn’t seem recompense enough. For now, though, I’ll settle for getting out of this damn pub.”

“Seen him before. I can find out. Bet I've got more friends than he does.” Andrew smiled grimly, shouldering back through the press of bodies. “You going to be able to walk back? Sounds like you might've broken a rib. I've heard men breathe like that before.”

Dr. Jhandir shook his head, which was in retrospect a bad idea. He winced. “I know what broken ribs feel like. Mine are just bruised—not that breathing in this condition is much more pleasant. And I will make it home. There are painkillers there, for a start.” He looked over at his now-unconscious attacker. “As for him, if you could see to it that he somehow learns that there’s a very good doctor on this platform who might be able to treat his jaw at minimal expense, I’d be more than happy to deal with him myself.”

Andrew let out a bark of a laugh. “That I think I can do. Ta, Harper.” He nodded at the man holding the door open for them, then took a deep breath of the cooler air outside. “All right, let’s get you home. At least you know you’ve got painkillers this time!”

If there was one bright side to the beating Dr. Jhandir had just taken, it was that the smell of his own blood masked, to a degree, the foul odors of the skydocks. Once they were a little way from the pub, he said, “This, you see, is why I don’t have many nights out,” and chuckled, painfully.

Andrew laughed. “I wouldn’t either.”

The group of ladybirds standing outside their brothel had mostly dispersed, but the two remaining stared and murmured. Andrew ignored them, slowly towing his friend along. It wasn’t much of a scrap of gossip, even if they passed it along to anyone; it was the skydocks. Men got hurt all the time, whether on the job or off.

“How often do your trips to the pub end in violence, under normal circumstances?” Dr. Jhandir asked, trying not to stare back at the prostitutes. “I, ah, wasn’t able to observe much, but you handled yourself with an adeptness that suggests you get into fights often. Is this what you do for fun?” He meant the question to be light and teasing, but he was in quite a lot of pain, so it came out more annoyed than he intended.

“Well, not exactly,” Andrew said, looking embarrassed. “I mean to say, a good fight is fun sometimes, but I never meant to drag you in and get you hurt. I could teach you some things if you like. Once you heal up, of course,” he added quickly.

“Once I’ve healed,” the doctor agreed. “Yes. I think that would be prudent.” After a moment, he added, “Thank you, Andrew. I’m sorry your night didn’t go as planned.”

Andrew shrugged awkwardly. “‘S all right, Doc. Dunno what I was expecting. Nothin’ against you, but you’re still a toff, and I’m not. I wouldn’t get on with any of your toff friends from… before.”

Dr. Jhandir started to laugh, but soon stopped due to the pain. “I didn’t even get on with my ‘toff friends.’ Everyone I used to work with was perfectly awful.” That was true, more or less, not that he cared at the time. But he knew how uncomfortable his government work made Andrew. “I wish I could introduce you to some of them, actually. I’ve never known men more deserving of a beating.”

Andrew grinned. “The pleasure would be mine entirely. Right, here we are! Think you can make it back up your front steps?”

“I believe so.” Dr. Jhandir said. He let go of his friend to grasp the railing and began to make his slow, careful way up the short flight of stairs. “I’ll see you next week. We’ll stay in.” It was not a question.

“Aye. That’s probably for the best. Good night, Doc.” Andrew waited at the bottom of the steps til the doctor had safely shut the door behind him, then headed home.


	16. Maddie Summers / @a-eterno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @a-eterno.

Maddie's favourite part of London-in-the-Air had to be its disagreeable climate.

After all, it made for a disagreeable atmosphere if one was tracking another.

Which she suspected someone of doing.

She shivered slightly under the rain, being as it was, almost ten o'clock in one of the more…industrial platforms of the Ton. (Nu, to be exact.)

She loved the small platform for its not-so-ritzy attitude and laidback residents. After all, living in one of the most posh regions of the city was not at all what appealed to her. (Unfortunately, her parents insisted that she take their so-called 'un-luxurified' house in the middle of "polite society" town, AKA Alpha. What. A. Bore.)

Anyway, she had just come back from her weekly Cat Club meeting, where they discussed the happenings of their lives with the other people. The members of the Cat Club came from all sorts of different backgrounds: many of them were from the lowest of the low (such as the Pi and Mu platforms) but some were the so-called 'young revolutionaries' like her, who did not give a whit about social class and just came for the enjoyment.

After all, she thought the social classes were just an excuse for mediocrity.

The Cat Club was not majorly exclusive: to enter, you just needed a recommendation from a friend inside the Club and you needed to have a cat. But, Maddie had not actually gotten an invitation. She had just chanced upon on of their meetings, gotten interested, and then paid the leader to let her in.

She had made some good friends there, but one person just particularly stood out to her.

He was a man…by the name of Dave Heaton.

They had become quite good friends after the first meeting: after all, she had not even known who he was that fateful day.

She laughed softly at the memories that flooded through her mind: even till today, the infuriating man still annoyed her. But, she had indeed discovered a new side to him.

Shaking those borderline romantic (shiver shiver) thoughts from her head, she focused on where she needed to go. Even though Nu was a very nice place to be during daylight hours, it became in the slightest…formidable in its afterhours.

The continued feeling of being followed came to her again, and she walked faster. A cold sweat ran down the back of her neck as she suddenly stopped, and looked at the shadows behind her. She suddenly realized that she was in an alley.

( what an idiot, yes. )

Before she could even fully comprehend what was happening, someone put their hands on her mouth, covering it so it wouldn't scream. The bastard held her loosely, clearly underestimating her.

Quickly coming up with a plan, she assembled it in logical, easy-to-follow steps:

  1. Take off the Offending Hand



Madelaide promptly bit at her attacker's hand, taking advantage of their surprise by spinning around to face the attacker and kicking them where it would definitely hurt.

  1. Run as fast as Possible



After the strategically-placed kick, she ran as fast as she could until she found herself out of the alley.

Finally reaching a corner far away from the alley where she could rest, she put her hands on her knees, panting. She was by now absolutely soaked, which made her shiver a bit. Even though she was positively freezing and her tiredness could be felt all the way to the bone, she took a few moments to check that no one was behind her.

Apparently, she hadn't done a very good job.

"Well done, Miss Madelaide." Said a voice, quite feminine if you asked Maddie. She instantly recognized it, and a tentative smile seemed to grace her face.

"Why, Mrs. Howard-Dutch. How delightfully sneaky of you! Why do you indeed grace me with your presence?" She asked.

"Well, my dear, I know that you have just…encountered some less-than-favourable person on the street, who tried to…disable you, let's say."

"And, that mean what exactly?" Maddie said sharply, knowing that Mrs. Howard-Dutch meant to get down to business.

"That was a test, Maddie dear."

"Forgive my impertinent tongue, but for what? I am not some school girl to be disciplined, contrary to popular belief." She mumbled the last part.

"You see, my…supporters and I have decided that you are a well enough candidate for something that you may have heard of, my dear."

Suddenly Maddie understood.

"…Yes, I seem to have a clear understanding of what you mean."

"Then you know that we will be needing your response soon. Now, have a good night, Miss Maddie. Also, are you in need of a coach?"

"No, I will be fine, thank you. Have a good night as well."

As Mrs. Howard-Dutch left, Maddie stood in the cold London rain, pondering what her decision would be.


	17. Lucian Blackwell / @natasha-maree13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @natasha-maree13.

It had been three weeks, six days, seventeen hours and nineteen minutes since Lucian had been told that Gwen was never coming home. His anger and rage had taken him to places he'd never been before, places his parents never even told him about...all kinds of seedy underground clubs and black market gatherings looking for answers.

The city officials had passed Gwenny's death off as an accident...like someone could accidentally stab themselves nine times and his parents wanted nothing to do with it, only wanting to mourn their daughter and move on.

Standing over the top of a street rat, Lucian kicked him in the stomach again, ignoring the blood that splattered his clothing. "Tell me!" he snarled. "Tell me what you know about Gwendolyn Blackwell!" Lucian had been led to this piece of street garbage via a contact he had in Pi platform...and by contact he meant prostitute.

He grabbed the guy and pulled him to the ground. "Tell me what you know!"

He laughed at spat in Lucian's face. "I ain't telling you nothing."

Lucian dropped the guy to the ground and stood back before kicking him again. After he'd lost consciousness, Lucian started searching him for anything that would give him a kind of clue as to who to go to next. He found nothing but an ordinary card stamped with a acorn and dogwood insignia...

He put the card in his pocket and fixed his jacket up before he headed down the alley way...little did he know it was his first contact with the rebellion nor there was a man in the shadows watching him.


	18. Rebecca Tyler / @lunaofthemiste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @lunaofthemiste.

****

**~[one year earlier, three weeks before Oscar’s death]~**

Rebecca quickly walked out of her house into the garden, absolutely furious, though no one would be able to tell.  She tended to keep her true feelings guarded, something she was grateful for at the moment. Otherwise, she would get scolded for sulking and not acting proper.

She made her way over to a bench in the garden, observing the rest of the Alpha platform.  Although the platform was admittedly beautiful, something about it seemed off to Rebecca.  _ It could be _ , she decided,  _ the fact that I’m one of the few who can enjoy it _ .  Despite her parents’ best efforts to keep her sheltered, Rebecca knew the conditions of the other platforms, and that upset her.  It didn’t seem fair, but there was no way things would ever change. She would just have to count herself lucky that she wasn’t on Xi platform.

“You seem vexed.” Oscar told Rebecca upon approaching her.  He had been her bodyguard for quite a few years, and they had mutually decided that saying ‘the Honorable Tyler’ each time he addressed her was unnecessary.

Rebecca sighed. “It’s my brother’s fiancee, Octavia.  Excuse my language, but she is a prick."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “That’s the worst you can do?  I bet you’ve thought worse about Lady Lydia Stanley."

“So maybe I have.” Rebecca frowned, shrugging. “There’s a difference, I am trying to make an effort with Octavia, but she is just insufferable."

“But you’re going to try."

“For the sake of my brother, and my family, I am.” Rebecca nodded. “I normally wouldn’t, but it’s different though… I don’t think you’d understand, you haven’t got a brother."

Oscar shrugged. “Not a biological one.  A sort-of brother."

“What’s a sort of brother?” Rebecca asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar hesitated, and Rebecca frowned. “You’re going to lie to me, don’t do that."

“What makes you think I’m going to lie to you?” Oscar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You hesitated, and you got defensive.  Everyone lies, you just have to see what their tells are.” Rebecca explained.

Oscar smiled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “I hate to admit it, but you know your secrets."

Rebecca’s gaze darkened. “I know when people are lying to me, that’s it.”  She stood up, crossing her arms. “What sort of brother?"

Oscar’s smile faded, and his tone grew hushed.  After hesitating, he glanced around them and sighed. “If I tell you, you must never breathe a word to anyone about this.  If word gets out, I die, and you might too."

“I won’t say a word, I swear.” Rebecca said gravely, starting to wonder how bad this secret was.

Oscar took a deep breath. “Your father hired me to keep you away from the resistance, and that’s what I have been doing.  However, I haven’t been totally honest about it. I am working undercover for the resistance.” He waited a minute to let Rebecca process, then continued. “You can’t tell anyone, or they’ll kill me."

Rebecca took a cautious step back. “You’ve been spying on us.” She said coldly.

“Not on you, the government.” Oscar corrected, taking a step closer. “Everything you know about us is wrong. We’re trying to fix the corruption that’s almost everywhere here.  Look around, Rebecca. You know things aren’t fair to everyone. Half the people don’t have the rights, or the money to fight back on their own, but together, we stand a chance."

Rebecca hesitated. “I see your point…” She said cautiously. “But what does this have to do with your sort-of brother?"

“His name is Tristan Curtis, he’s one of the closest things I have to a brother.  He’s in the resistance too.” Oscar explained. “You swore, Rebecca, you can’t say anything."

“And I won’t.” Rebecca told him. “Does my word mean nothing to you? I will keep your secret.”  She looked down. “Is there some way I can help? Maybe-"

“You can’t.” Oscar shook his head. “I can’t let you, it’s too dangerous.  I’m fine risking my life, but I can’t have you risking yours as well. I’m supposed to be protecting you after all."

Rebecca sighed. “Fine.” She agreed, frowning.

“Don’t worry, if we need help, and I think it’s safe, I will let you know.” Oscar assured her. “I’ll give you an address for Tristan, in case something happens and I have to leave.  Don’t use it except in an emergency, agreed?” He asked.

Rebecca nodded. “Agreed.  Now, I do think we should go back inside, it’s getting a tad warm out.” She decided, and the two headed back inside together.  As they headed inside, Oscar looked behind him, frowning. He could have sworn he saw someone watching the pair.

***

**~[five weeks later]~**

Rebecca sat in her room, glad that everyone was giving her space.  She looked out the large window overlooking the platform, trying to block out the memory of weeks before, but it creeped back in.

She swore that nothing could ever be remembered as crisply in her mind.  It was an afternoon two weeks earlier, just after lunch, and Rebecca had gone to find Oscar.  They were going to the air ferry to take them to Lambda platform, and she had been less than thrilled.  She had been minding her business, absorbed in her own thoughts when she heard a scream. She couldn’t tell whether it was a warning or a cry for help, but she hurried towards it anyways.  

Rebecca then stopped cold in her tracks, processing all that was in front of her.  There was blood everywhere - she never thought so much blood could be in one place at any given moment. 

Then she saw him. 

Oscar was lying lifeless in a pool of blood, and Rebecca knew instantly that he was dead.  She raised a hand to her mouth in shock, but made no sound, too overwhelmed to process anything.  She couldn’t even hear her brother calling her, trying to get a response out of his shocked, younger sister.

The only thing she heard was, oddly enough, a faint whistle in the background.

A few days later, Rebecca was looking through one of her books, and a small paper fell out.  She immediately recognized Oscar’s small handwriting on the paper, and realized that he had left the address for her.  Smiling, she knew what she needed to do. Oscar would have wanted to protect her, but she needed to honor him, and fight in the cause that he died for.

Quickly, Rebecca penned a note to the address, explaining who she was and how she could help.  She left most details vague in case it was a false address, but hoped it would get her point across.  Signing the letter, she sealed it and wrote out the address on the front of the envelope. Leaving her room quietly, Rebecca managed to find the only other person she fully trusted in her house that wasn’t family: Amelie, a servant.  She trusted the girl with the envelope, hoping to receive a response soon.

Weeks later, a response hadn’t arrived, and Rebecca’s hope started to fade.  She sighed, knowing that they would never trust someone like her with a cause like that.

Suddenly, Rebecca heard a knock on her door.  She looked up quickly and rushed to the door, hoping it was what she thought it was.  Opening the door, a surprised Amelie held out an envelope, offering no explanation.

With a small thank you, Rebecca took the envelope and tore it open, scanning the letter inside.  Although vague, it got its point across, listing a date, a location, and a request to bring information.  The letter was signed ’T.C.’, and had one final message:

“Come alone."

Rebecca allowed herself a small smile, tucking the note between the pages of a book.  It was time to find out the secrets kept from her.


End file.
